By John Brunner
Kynance Foy was once younger, attractive, clever an hugely proficient in either qua-space physics and enterprise legislation while she left Earth to hunt her fortune within the interstellar outworlds. yet she came across that the additional she bought from Earth, the harder grew to become the contest from the environment-hardened populations of those younger worlds... and by the point she reached the planet Nefertiti, she used to be dealing with poverty. Then, without warning, an excellent chance spread out for her: the activity of Planetary manager of the fabulously filthy rich international referred to as Zygra, the place unique pelts costing 1000000 credit every one have been grown. The wage used to be large, and on the finish of the year's journey of responsibility she will be transported at no cost again to Earth, the place she will be a truly prosperous younger lady. There needed to be a trap to it, she suggestion as she signed the agreement. And, after all, there was.
First released 1966.
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Extra resources for A Planet of Your Own
Wrong,’ Kevin said. ’ Fat said. ’ ‘Kevin’s got the corpse now,’ David said. ‘To hold up. That was the whole point of the cat’s existence. ’ ‘God did,’ Kevin said. ‘So God created a refutation of his own goodness,’ Sherri said. ’ ‘God is stupid,’ Kevin said. ‘We have a stupid deity. ’ ‘You just need two cats,’ Kevin said. ’ But he could obviously see where she was leading him. ‘It takes –’ He paused, grinning. ’ Sherri said. ’ Sherri said. ‘They –’ Again Kevin hesitated. ‘They are their purpose.
He did not know his own life was on the line. This was 1971. In 1972 he would be up north in Vancouver, British Columbia, involved in trying to kill himself, alone, poor and scared, in a foreign city. Right now he was spared that knowledge. All he wanted to do was coax Gloria up to Marin County so he could help her. One of God’s greatest mercies is that he keeps us perpetually occluded. In 1976, totally crazy with grief, Horselover Fat would slit his wrist (the Vancouver suicide attempt having failed), take forty-nine tablets of high-grade digitalis, and sit in a closed garage with his car motor running-and fail there, too.
This issue had now passed over into Horselover Fat’s theological world as a problem for us – his friends – to field. It would have been simple to tie the two together in Fat’s case: the dope he did during the Sixties had pickled his head on into the Seventies. If I could have arranged it so that I could think so, I would have; I like solutions that answer a variety of problems simultaneously. But I really couldn’t think so. Fat hadn’t done psychedelics, at least not to any real extent. Once, in 1964, when Sandoz LSD-25 could still be acquired – especially in Berkeley – Fat had dropped one huge hit of it and had abreacted back in time or had shot forward in time or up outside of time; anyhow he had spoken in Latin and believed that the Dies Irae, the Day of Wrath, had come.